


The Small Things

by PeriPeriwinkle



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 13:50:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17920016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: Dorian and Bull’s relationship wasn’t all defined by the shameless flirting, the loud tumbles in bed, or even the way they bickered with each other like an old married couple.It was also defined by the little—yet oh so big—things.





	The Small Things

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution for the Adoribull fanzine! I hope you all like reading it as much as I loved writing it :)
> 
>  
> 
> \----

It’s the small things, really.

How Dorian leans towards Bull when they’re sitting side by side in the tavern, like two magnets that slowly inch toward each other. How he offers a taste of his dinner to Bull, and fills his fork and offers it up instead of inching his plate over so Bull can take a piece of it with his own cutlery. How Bull waits patiently, accepts the offering with a smile and a nod of approval, and how it all feels so natural neither of them think anything of it.

How Bull, once a wall of focus during drills with his boys, has slowly gained the habit of looking around distractedly, either up towards the library windows or around their gathered crowd, searching almost frantically for a dashing mustache set over a particular pair of lips amongst the people watching. And how when he finally spots Dorian, almost inevitably watching with rapt interest, he gets a goofy grin on his face before proudly puffing up his chest and doubling his efforts to the point of recklessness. It’s either annoying or endearing, depending on your point of view.

It’s how Dorian sometimes wakes in the middle of the night to find himself still in his armchair at the library, but with the addition of a pillow under his cheek, a blanket draped over his shoulders, a plate of dried fruits and cheese on his end table. He even finds the book he was reading closed shut over his lap, bookmarked where he most likely stopped. The little scrap of pink embroidered fabric nestled between the pages is enough of a clue, but he doesn’t need it to know with absolute certainty who’s responsible for such atrocious acts of kindness.

It’s how Bull sets a folded finger under Dorian's jaw and Dorian obediently lifts his chin, allowing Bull to ever so carefully slide a dangerously sharp razor across his throat. It's also how Dorian doesn’t even flinch, doesn't hesitate before offering his bare neck, his eyes fluttering closed, so relaxed he's almost asleep. Dorian knows he needn't worry about anything worse than accidental knicks, doesn’t have to fuss about how exactly he wants his goatee and mustache shaved; Bull knows exactly how he likes it done, and Dorian, surprising even himself, trusts him to do it perfectly without any guidance.

Dorian replays these moments in his head, these small yet utterly massive moments that slowly creep into his life and became a part of his daily routine so naturally he barely even noticed the shift from one moment to another, and wonders.

He’s in Tevinter now; it's been a few months since he last saw both Bull and the Inquisitor, a few months since they've successfully saved Thedas from Corypheus and his blighted dragon. After two whole years of having those two by his side almost constantly, he can frankly say he misses them so dearly he now wonders how to make it through the rest of his life without them there.

Which is how he’s found himself here and now. The merchant Mae has sent him knocks on the door of his study, snapping Dorian out of his thoughts. The man is an older Nevarran mage, and they spend long minutes chit chatting idly; his time in the Inquisition has apparently made him rather famous amongst necromancers everywhere, and the merchant is fascinated to meet Dorian and hear directly from him which rumours are true and which aren’t. Dorian indulges him for a while, but soon enough moves his attention back to the leather case the man has brought. The merchant smiles, suddenly all business, and when he waves his fingers the lock of the case clicks open, his bony hand lifting the lid with a flair that Dorian appreciates.

Inside lie an array of glittering stones, each one only slightly bigger than an almond, pulsing and glowing with varying degrees of intensity. Each stone is paired together with an identical twin, both nestled together inside a two by two square that’s part of an enormous grid structure that forms the inside of the case. Dorian is mesmerized; he's heard of sending stones before, but they're so incredibly rare he's never actually seen one, much less such a varied collection of them in one single place. His hand hovers over a pair of green stones shaped like oak leaves, thinking of how it reminds him of Lavellan, but a particularly bright sparkle at the corner of his eye catches his attention and makes him hesitate.

At the bottom left corner of the case, almost hidden by their velvet red pouch, lie a couple of bright pink stones shaped like raindrops. He takes them in his hand, feeling their combined weight. The magic that flows inside them is so powerful it feels like running river water flowing through his fingers, pooling heavily over his palm.

He thinks of Bull, already on its way to Orlais, and the words written in his latest letter, the affection intended and poured into every word. He thinks of what it'd be like to hear him say those very same words instead, to be able to speak to him whenever he likes, instantly, instead of having to wait days or weeks to receive news from him. To eliminate the anxiety of not knowing when the next letter could be the last.

“I'll take these,” Dorian says, carefully placing the raindrop stones inside their velvet pouch, his hand tingling with the absence of their power against his skin. “...and these,” Dorian continues, interrupting whatever the merchant was about to say, and takes the oak leaf stones as well.

The merchant widens his eyes, smiling so broadly Dorian can see all of his crooked and missing teeth.

“Most excellent choices, Serah! You must've made valuable friends while in the Inquisition, for not only one but _two_ of them to receive such a generous gift!”

Payment is arranged, leaving Dorian with a significant dent in his savings and the merchant with a skip on his step and a cheery song on his lips.

Dorian looks at the stones in his hand, and again, he wonders.

It’s almost impossible to pinpoint the before and after, really.

If Dorian wanted to sound like a hopeless romantic, he’d say it was when they started sleeping together, but he knows that’s not really it. At the beginning, he treated it all much like all his other casual affairs; depart before dawn, make your touches firm and demanding, make him think of you as the best he’s ever had—and will have—then leave just as he starts craving more.

He somewhat remembers when he started stretching the time he spent in bed, when getting up at dawn was harder than it should’ve been and excuses began running wild through his mind as to why he should stay rather than leave. But it’s nearly impossible to remember when filthy kisses became gentle, when rough grabs became caresses, when hair-grabbing became running fingers along his scalp, so natural the transition from one to the other that Dorian was shocked to realize it happened at all. There were fleeting realizations here and there, of course, but nothing that made alarm bells ring with how dangerously close it all was to becoming more serious than he intended.

Dorian’s reasoning for continuously seeking Bull out, after all, was that since he had no intention of pursuing anyone else either in Skyhold or elsewhere, it was only logical to stretch their fling for as long as either of them wanted it to go for. The fact that Bull was not just good but _incredible_ only served as further incentive, and one thing led to another until then became now, with Dorian riding an undead bog unicorn, stomach fluttering at the thought of seeing Bull again, a couple of pouches each worth three times the amount of gold he earned during his two years in the Inquisition weighing heavily in his pocket.

 

\---

 

Bull knows that, while at first he treated Dorian just as he would anyone else, there was also something that made their thing unique. Could it be the fact that he knew the man a lot better than most of his casual lays, since they’d been traveling together for several weeks before finally tumbling into bed? Could it be that the knowledge he obtained about his personal life, both unlawfully through the Ben Hassrath and legitimately through the Inquisition, the details of his past affairs and the hardships he’d overcome to become who he was, made him care more for Dorian either in or out of bed? Hard to say. All Bull knew was that being with Dorian was different, and their relationship was unlike any other he'd ever had, and not in a bad way. Not at all. Not knowing exactly why things happened the way they did or why they were the way there were usually made Bull uneasy, but whenever he lay with Dorian, before they both fell asleep, all he felt was peace.

But after Dorian is gone, so is that peace. The very first night, not even an hour after Dorian has started his journey back to Tevinter, Bull lies on his bed, hands folded over his torso, and stares at his ceiling, tracing the mends in the wood and remembering the day when they both worked on patching the blasted hole. Thinking about how empty and cold his room is now. How there is a comforting weight missing over his arm and only now that it is gone he realizes he can’t sleep peacefully without it. The only few times he manages to sleep deeply and soundly are the times he wears himself out, exercising until he is left a panting, quivering, sweaty mess, passing out as soon as his head hits the pillow—only to then see Dorian in his dreams.

He receives Dorian’s first letter just a couple of weeks after he’s gone, and it helps. He writes back almost right away, so as to not let the words he’s thinking and feeling escape his grip—a worry he never had before in his life but that seems legitimate in the heat of the moment, when he’s filled with both known and unknown emotions. Dorian’s acute absence is still there in the evening, still felt around his now-too-big mattress, but now Bull thinks about the words in the letter, remembers tracing the parchment and studying each smudge and sweep of a calligraphy now so very familiar to him, and before he knows it he’s asleep with a smile on his lips.

And now he’s here, so very close to seeing Dorian again, and his stomach feels like it’s in knots. The Chargers went to the Winter Palace alongside the Inquisition's entourage just a few days before Dorian’s scheduled to arrive, but the day feels impossibly far to Bull, like time’s sensing his anxiousness and it’s dragging its feet on purpose. The inside of palace is warm and cozy as usual, thanks to not only the palace’s multiple fireplaces but also the magically conjured heat that permeates the air—courtesy of Empress Celene’s court mages, undoubtedly—but the bed in the room assigned to both him and Dorian feels just as cold as any other. It's beautiful and opulent, like the rest of the suite, and more than worthy of receiving the Tevinter Ambassador and his oversized qunari partner—tall, polished posts and draped golden curtains frame the bed’s structure, and the mattress, covered in a smooth and silky set of sheets, is just the exact density; firm enough to handle their combined body weight, yet comfortable enough to hug Bull's every curve when he lies on it. It should be perfect, by all means, even without Dorian there to share it with him, but it’s not. So Bull spends little to no time at all in it.

Instead he goes around the gardens and the tavern, catching up with some of the people who'd left Skyhold after Corypheus’ defeat and drinking with his boys, and when he just doesn’t feel like socializing he sits on the chaise under the window in his— _their_ —room, distractedly reading a book Cassandra recommended for him while also keeping an eye on the front gates of the palace, waiting for a familiar bog unicorn to appear. The book is some sort of syrupy sweet romance, the exact sort that Cassandra loves; the plot is drab and the characters feel very shallow, but it helps pass the time. And if it gets him in a certain mood, no one will be the wiser.

Maybe Cassandra. But she would never tell anyone, Bull is sure.

 

\---

 

_“_ I want to talk about my feelings”, Bull blurted out, like some helpless imekari, like a love-drunk sap tumbling over his own tongue, and they both froze where they stood.

It wasn't what Bull meant to say.

It _definitely_ wasn't what Dorian was waiting to hear.

Bull knew he should’ve stopped reading the book when he started crying over it, _damn_ it all.

But it was done, and he couldn’t—didn’t want to—take it back. Because he knew he was done for several minutes ago, in actuality, when whatever speech and pomp he'd planned and rehearsed in his head for so long were all gone, vanished at the first sight of Dorian, gloriously beautiful on the back of his undead horse. His official Tevinter Ambassador outfit contrasts perfectly with his skin tone; he almost glows with the golden threads and embroidered brocade that covers nearly every inch of his body, the fabric and its shapes equal parts armor that protects him from the world and weapon that he uses to strike forth fearlessly. And strike Bull he does indeed. Bull never noticed before how _muted_ Dorian looked in his Inquisition day to day and travel clothes; now that he's seeing him in all his flawless grace, carrying and presenting himself as a Tevinter official and altus should always do, he feels slightly overwhelmed.

In his life Bull’s seen more than his fair share of Tevinter alti in official garb, all looking menacing and regal in their obviously expensive folds and skirts, but Dorian’s look is equal parts threatening and entrancing, fashionably sharp and dangerous. Bull knew Dorian understood how to use his looks to his advantage, but with the Inquisition having limited funds, Dorian had to make do with what he had. It’s only more proof of how versatile and clever Dorian is, to still manage the way he obviously did.

Dorian, on his part, feels glued to the grass beneath his feet, mouth slightly open. They're far enough from prying eyes and ears that he mustn't worry about openly showing affection here, but for several seconds he feels he can't speak, his voice gone, hands gripping Bull's fingers tightly. Bull's single eye looks at him, searching, _yearning_ , and Dorian, usually quick to react, has nothing to say. Has no idea how to respond.

Instead he lets actions speak for themselves; lets what he's feeling convey what he means to say. He leans forward, closing the gap between the two of them, and catches Bull's lips with his own, throwing his arms around the man's impossibly wide neck. Bull responds immediately, letting out a sigh of relief through his nose as he relaxes his whole frame. He holds Dorian close, hugging him tightly until Dorian's feet are no longer touching the ground, until Bull's mouth tingles with the scratch of the man's mustache, until the whole world vanishes so it’s just the two of them, the cool Orlesian breeze, and the faint, salty scent of the sea.

“I've missed you too, you great big oaf,” Dorian says breathlessly, and Bull laughs, not even trying to hide how choked up he feels.

For that beautiful, perfect moment, not the present, not the past, nor the future matters anymore.

All that matters is the two of them, here and now, and the impossible yet crystal clear certainty that nothing or nobody will ever keep them apart, no matter the distance between them or the hardships that they may eventually face. They will speak very soon, of course, about all of this and more; exchange gifts and words and touches while hidden behind the silken curtains and underneath the soft sheets of their impossibly large Orlesian bed, and they will both lay themselves bare to each other in a way they've never done before to anyone else in their lives quite like this. It will be frightening. But also liberating, to know so certainly and so surely that, although things from now on won't be perfect, or even great most of the time—they both will be, ultimately, okay.

Because no matter what the future holds for them, they will always face the things that are to come as one. No matter what.


End file.
